HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado Page 6
He took a sip from his goblet and stared at her. “What is it you wish to know, Miss St. Clair?”
“Please, everyone calls me Moira. We’re all on a first name basis after a week at sea, aren’t we, Captain?”
“Yes, yes—” the man grinned—“by all means. We leave only the most necessary of social contrivances dockside, I believe.”
The others smiled around the table, each eating, but their eyes drifted between Moira and Mr. Adams. “What is your given name, Mr. Adams?”
“Mr. Adams is good enough for me,” he said, a hint of an impish grin soon hidden behind a napkin.
Moira ignored the small slight. “Oh dear, Mr. Adams, I don’t suppose you are ashamed of your name? Is it something frightful, such as Horace? Or Archibald?”
“Thankfully, no,” he said, retreating, now clearly wishing the attention off of him and on to other matters. “It is Daniel. So please, Miss—Moira,” he said her name slowly, and Moira found herself thinking only of the low, mellow timber of his voice. A baritone, she imagined. “What is it you wish to know?”
Moira ignored Gavin’s irritated shift beside her. He clearly didn’t like her attention on anyone but him. But she stared across the table. No man ignored her. Why was this one so different? “Your occupation, please. Let us begin with that.” She looked down the table. “Among the gentlemen here are three seamen, three bankers…” she smiled at Gavin as she continued, “a commodities broker, a politician, and a real estate tycoon.” She looked back across to Daniel. “Please tell me you have a career of interest.”
Daniel swallowed and tried to smile. It was a lopsided, awkward thing to behold, but oddly endearing. “I am simply a man sent to procure a shipment for my employer from London and see it safely to his new hotel in Leadville, Colorado.”
Moira sat up a bit taller, in spite of herself. “Are you a hotelier, then? Or a barkeep?”
“Both, at times. For now, I suppose I am an importer if I expect to sit at this table for much longer,” he said, looking around to the others.
The others smiled and raised their glasses in salute. “Are you at liberty to discuss what it is you are importing?” the captain asked. “Rarely have I seen crates that large loaded upon my ship.”
“It is a large, quite beautiful bar of pure mahogany,” Daniel returned. “My employer paid a handsome price for it and had it built exactly to his specifications. The bar itself runs twenty feet in length, and there is fine carving beneath the top. The mirror that sits behind it runs the same length, and the woodcarvers outdid themselves in showcasing it with a fine border.” He shook his head in wonder. “I work for a clever man; many will enter the hotel solely to see such a beautiful piece in the wilds of Colorado.”
The men asked him about Leadville, about the mines that had been exhausted years ago, but how people continued to arrive, intent on claiming their own bit of mountain paradise or digging for a bit of still-undiscovered silver. Daniel answered every one of them, but his replies were short and to the point, as if he was hiding something, longing to return to the shadows.
“So how long have you been a hotelier-barkeep-importer?” Moira casually asked.
“Quite some time,” he said, his tone clipped, brooking no further query.
Why the secrecy? Moira wondered.
“Do you have a family, back in Leadville, Daniel?” the captain asked, coming to his rescue.
Moira studied the man, and didn’t miss the shadow that crossed his face. “No,” he said simply.
“I’ve heard there are twenty men to every woman in those regions,” Gavin said. He leaned forward and looked at Daniel, curiosity live in his bright blue eyes. He truly was amazingly handsome, elegant.
“Sounds right,” Daniel allowed, jerking Moira’s attention back across the table. “Saying goes that any woman who comes our way has ten marriage offers before she steps off a stagecoach. And singers … why they’re as popular as a cold well on the hottest day of summer.” He did not look at her, but folded his napkin and said quietly, “That reminds me … would you kindly grace us with a song after supper, Moira?”
All eyes were suddenly upon her again, and she saw the glint of pleasure in Daniel’s eyes as his finally met hers. He’d found the way to shift the topic of conversation at last. So he was more clever than he appeared. She felt a smile on her lips. “I’d be honored,” she said demurely.
Later after supper, they all assembled in the large parlor, where they spent most of their days. In the corner was a small upright piano, and happily, one of the bankers proved to be a decent accompanist. Moira sang a lovely tune, one of her favorites, but as she looked into the eyes of every person present, she noted with some dismay that the man with sad brown eyes was not present.
No matter, she thought, dismissing him. She focused on Gavin, with his keen blue eyes, who smiled constantly and engaged everyone he met with ease. This was the man she needed to think about. Not some other who clearly didn’t care a whit for her—or even getting to know her.
Nic stared up into the starlit sky, wondering what William was up to in port. As a more junior crewman, William had been given less time ashore than some of the others, but he shoved off in the last rowboat at sunset, giving Nic a flick of his finger to the brim of his hat in farewell. “I’ll bring you back a spot of rum,” he said lowly.
Did the captain intend him to stay aboard ship for the length of the entire voyage?
Nic’d go mad if that was the case. Even now, he found himself pacing like a caged cougar, back and forth atop the deck on watch—but more on his own hopeless watch than any serious care for the Mirabella. And why did the captain not head for port himself? Terence had shoved off with William, but the captain stayed. Did he so love the sea that he—
The captain opened the door of the lantern, lit a bunt, and then closed the small glass door. He placed the bunt in the bowl of his pipe, sucked on the stem, trying to get the tobacco to light.
“Cap’n,” Nic said in surprise. Rarely was the man on deck when the first mate was not. But perhaps this was normal protocol in port.
The captain grunted and walked toward him. Nic stiffened as he leaned at the rail and puffed at his pipe for several minutes. The sweet smell of the tobacco wafted over them both. Nic inhaled, the smell casting him back to smoke-filled fighting rings, and further back, to his father and grandfather, who often used different tobaccos, particular favorites, to stuff their pipes. At last, the small man turned toward him in silent regard. “You hate me, don’t you, Dominic?”
“Hate?” He swallowed a laugh. Hate had become a tender word compared to what he felt for the man. Loathe? Abhor?
“It matters not,” the captain said, with a wave of his pipe. “Are you missing the ring? Please,” he gestured to the rail beside him, “take your ease for a moment, watchman.”
“Not until tonight,” Nic said. He eased his stance but did not lean on the rail as the captain did. “Up to now, I’ve been too tired to think of fighting.”
“And now?”
“Now, here, I feel the pull of it,” he admitted. “The ring.”
“And so if you were in port, now, you’d find a fight?”
“Or a willing woman,” Nic said evenly.
The captain grinned. “Sounds like you’re already a sailor to me.”
“A sailor by force,” he dared.
“Yes, well there is that. You lost me money, St. Clair. I intend to make it back in labor. Round the Horn with us and I’ll begin paying you.”
“And you think that is fair?” Nic sputtered. He could feel the heat rising up his neck, tension making his arm muscles taut. “To kidnap a man, force him to leave behind everything he owns? Should I work for everyone who made a poor bet on me? Perhaps there are some racehorses you can saddle and put to work in your stern too!”
“Fair enough,” said the captain in casual regard. “Keep in mind I could keep you aboard for the duration and pay you nothing for six months. This ship is my ow
n kingdom, and I am free to do as I please within it. Consider it largesse, St. Clair, on my part, this offer.” He straightened, stared at Nic a moment, and then slowly turned to walk away.
Nic turned back to the rail, breathing rapidly through his nose, forcing himself not to run after the captain and tackle him to the ground, beat him.
“St. Clair?” called the captain.
He could do nothing more than raise his chin to mark the fact that he’d heard his captain call. To turn toward him would undoubtedly mean losing control.
“Life is not fair, St. Clair,” said the captain lowly. “Life is life.”
Reid Bannock accepted his funds from the begrudging banker in Cañon City, who clearly knew who he was and why he’d served time. It mattered little to Reid. He smiled at the banker and placed his hat atop his head again as his eyes met the blessed, clear spring sun outside.
Free. I’m a free man.
He stood there on the street of the small town, considering his options. A wise man would head far from here, take a new name, reinvent himself. A wise man would bury the past like a dead neighbor and move on to stake a new claim.
He remained there a long time, feeling the weight of his decision shift within him, like fluid in a jug, from one side to the other. It was powerful, the desire to get even with the McAllans, Moira, Nic, as was the desire to begin anew, to be free of the past, to make better, wiser decisions in the future. He wasn’t old; at forty-two, there was still time to take a wife, have a family. And the stakes were high. Sheriff Olsbo would be watching for him.
Reid stood there for many long minutes afterward, asking himself the same questions, over and over.
At last he moved. There was a time for wisdom, the time to withdraw, seek safety. And there was a time to gamble it all.
Chapter 6
6 April 1887
Bryce picked up the telegram and then closed his eyes and took a long, heavy breath. He was coming; Robert was coming here, to the ranch, to survey the disaster. He hadn’t enough to do, back at the shipyard—he had to meddle here too! Bryce shook his head slightly. Always the older brother …
“Bryce,” Odessa said, from over by the sink where she was washing dishes. “What is it?” she asked tentatively. “You barely touched your breakfast. Are you feeling all right?”
“Fine, fine,” he mumbled. He hated the tone in her voice, the distance between them, but could not seem to find the way to bridge it, not with what he had to do still before them.
She turned around and dried her hands on the towel. “Tell me. What does the telegram say?”
“It’s Robert,” he said.
“Your brother? He’s well?” She sat down beside him, around the corner of the table.
He forced a small smile to his face as he dared to look at her. “Well enough to come for a visit.”
Odessa smiled, her eyes widening. “That is wonderful news!” Her smiled quickly faded. “You are not … pleased he is coming?”
He rubbed his temples. “Dess, there is something I need to tell you. Something I’ve been considering.”
“Then tell me. Out with it. No more silences, no more secrets, Bryce. There’s been enough of that lately between us.”
“My brother is coming, but I might be gone.”
She lifted her chin a bit, as if bracing for what was to come. She was so strong, his wife. Maybe strong enough to endure this—
“I must go to Spain, Dess, and bring back a hundred head of horses—fifty to sell at a profit and fifty to strengthen the herd and breed for next year.”
She stared at him with those lovely blue-green eyes for a long moment and blinked slowly. Above them, they could hear Samuel begin to stir from his morning nap, but she ignored it.
“We’ve lost too many, Dess.” He reached out a hand to cover hers, but she pulled away. “The blizzard. The strangles. There is no way to recover. Our cash is all in the land. Your own inheritance is in the new land … I won’t see it sold. Any of it.” He shrugged. “And we can’t make it through another winter. There’s simply not enough.” He rose and paced alongside the table. “Robert will review our books. He’ll want to see how the family’s investment is faring, and he’ll see the errors I made. Buying that land last year instead of investing in snowbreaks.” He ran a hand through his hair in agitation. “I need him to see that I’m rectifying the problem, not ignoring it.”
“Sell the land,” she said, looking up at him. “I don’t care if it was my money or yours. It’s ours, together. Sell some of it.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s unwise, Odessa. There isn’t a man in this valley who could pay us half of what we paid for it a year ago. Everyone’s lost too much this past winter. That’s how things work.”
She searched his face, desperation making her own look drawn and weary, and Bryce felt another pang of guilt. “There are years of plenty and years of famine,” she said. “I am willing to accept that risk, as a rancher’s wife. But I am not about to risk your life.” She rose and walked to him. “Think about it,” she said, putting a hand on his forearm. “It was your voyages to Spain that first brought you low with the consumption. We’ve been without disease for three years, Bryce. Breathing free.” Samuel’s full-blown wail brought her head up and around. “I have to go to him. But please, think about it.”
“You think I haven’t?” he said. “You think I’ve made this decision lightly?”
She turned on the stairs to face him again.
“Everything I do, I do for you and Samuel, Dess.”
“Not this,” she said, shaking her head and crossing her arms. She pointed at him. “This … this is something different. Pride? Fear? What is it? You can’t face your older brother in the midst of a hard year?”
“Stop, Odessa,” he warned.
Samuel coughed, he was crying so hard, but Odessa still stared at Bryce, now shaking in anger. Never had he seen her so furious, until just a couple of nights ago when she learned that he’d known Reid Bannock had been released and had not told her. “You would leave us here? To run the ranch—”
“Tabito can run the ranch.”
“You would leave us here, when Reid Bannock might show up again? How is that caring for me and Samuel, Bryce?” She shook her head. “No, this is not about us. This is about you.”
“Regardless, I must find a way to supplement the herd and help us through the year. You don’t seem to understand that there is not enough to make it through.”
“Can we borrow from the bank?”
He shook his head. “Not this year.”
“Maybe … maybe your brother can lend us money.”
He looked up at her and frowned. “You know how it is with us. I don’t want him in my affairs any more than is absolutely necessary.”
She looked to the window, arms crossed, thinking for a moment, then back to him. “Then cash in on the gold bar we found in Louise’s cabin.”
His frown deepened and he brought a finger to his lips, shushing her. Harold Rollins was sick in bed, in the parlor below them, but the man still had ears. “We agreed to not speak of it again,” he whispered.
“No, that was how you wanted it, and I went along with it for a time. Since we couldn’t find the rest, it hardly mattered. But Bryce, that bar could see us at least partway through another winter, help us get our feet under us again.”
Bryce rose and walked over to her. “You’re the one who fears that Bannock will return. If he hears we have conquistador gold, he will find a way back to us, Dess. And he won’t be alone.”
She lifted her chin and her eyes grew more defiant. “Then let’s melt it down here so there are no markings and divide it into smaller, less obvious pieces. You can take them to California, if you have to, to exchange it for cash. California won’t kill you; Spain might.” Her eyes softened and she came over to him. “Don’t you see, Bryce? This could be God’s provision, His way of seeing us through a trying year. Why not utilize what He has given us?”
8 April 1887
Our visitor, Harold Rollins, has moved to the bunkhouse. The men are under strict orders to treat him with respect, but none can avoid the fact that he remains only because Sheriff Olsbo has forebade him to leave; he must remain three more weeks to make sure that his remaining eight horses are free of disease and will not infect any other ranchers as they have ours.
Three of our yearlings and two mares are showing signs of the strangles. I can feel the swellings along their jaw lines. Bryce is beside himself, since we must begin the breeding process, and yet he hesitates, not wishing to risk the health of either dam or foal if strangles occurs. But which to breed? Which to segregate? Put down the ill or hope for recovery? I notice he is not as eager to put down our horses as he was Harold’s, and this seems to trouble him too.
Odessa walked with the baby down to the stables, intent on looking in on the twelve young foals that had managed to survive the blizzard. Not one of them showed signs of the strangles, and she had taken to looking in on them each day, finding hope, vision for their future, every time she gazed at them across the stable doorway. They were already bored, seeking to leave the close confines of the small stalls they shared with their mothers, but Odessa knew it would be some time before Bryce risked their tender lungs. As it was, he only allowed the hands to take them out once a day, to the farthest corral, for exercise.
She looked about, wondering at her nervousness at the thought of encountering her husband. Odessa didn’t know what to make of this new mood in him. And she alternated between frustration and fear. Was this to be their relationship from here on out? Why could they not draw together to fight this new battle? Why did it seem to divide them when they needed each other most?
Odessa smiled as she spied the first foal, a lovely chestnut colored imp that tossed his head when he saw her, as if in greeting. She lifted Samuel up to get a better look, and the baby gurgled and kicked excited fat legs in pleasure. She moved on to the next stall, glimpsing Bryce approaching them, but ignored him. She felt too angry, too hurt to speak to him. He’d left without waiting for her to retrieve Samuel, left without even trying to find resolution. The ranch hands all appeared to be elsewhere this morning; at least none were inside at the moment.